"Tradition, which is always old, is at
the same time ever new because it is always
reviving born again in a new generation, to be lived
and applied in a new and particular way."
Thomas Merton
Medora, a century that has become a tradition despite the many changes since its inception umpteen years ago. Because it is a tradition and because it is an easy century, I am expecting more than the traditional six that have been riding most of this years weekly century rides. Not that the same six riders have been riding. But it just seems to be the average number of people who show. And I am not disappointed. Nineteen show. Attendance is, I am certain, aided by the delightful weather prediction of low eighties and little wind. Two of the riders, John Mahorney of Ridenfaden, and Thomas Nance, of Ridenfaden and the Louisville Bicycle Club, ride to the ride start and ride home afterward for an approximate 150 mile day.
When I originally put the Medora Century on, the town had a small store with tables and a deli, a dairy bar, and a gas station. There was no festival. Now the stores are all gone, closed for various reasons like so many of the small country stores that fuel our rides, with a Dollar General Store rising from the ashes. So now, rather than putting the ride on any time of the year, it is always on the calendar when Medora Goes Pink, a fund raising festival for cancer, the second Saturday in October. Traditions modify to fit the times if they want to survive and eating is important on a century. Most of the fails or really painful centuries I have witnessed have been due to a rider not eating. Indeed, on brevets, when I lost my appetite I knew I was in trouble.
It also has become tradition to ask all riders to wear pink. This year I have decorated my bike. I have a pink rose bouquet attached to my handle bar bag and a cheap pink feather boa adorns the handlebar. Many of the riders wear pink in some form, if only a bandana. As I have told them, or teased them actually, "real men wear pink:-)" Amelia is dressed with pink underwear with a back of some type of shimmery material. In the past there have been bras, decorated and worn on the outside of jerseys. Mike Crawford adorned a pink tutu one year. Paul inevitably wears his pink 25,000 mile jersey (the one the club changed to a dreary gray later). Many of us, myself included, are wearing the pink Tour de Mad Dog jersey designed by Steve Rice. Almost everyone has at least a hint of pink, if only a bandana.
I decide to use the new route that I came up with when 39 was being repaved as riders seemed to like it better than the traditional route I designed. Maybe this is because there are fewer climbs, particularly at the end when the few hills on Kinderhook and Hebron Church can seem brutal, or maybe it is because we are on almost all country roads rather than the traditional state highways that have become busier over the years. And the wind: Medora can be brutal in the wind. It is essentially flat farmland for much of the route and there is no place to hide from the wind if she decides to slap you around a bit. Even after all these years I remember sitting in Randy's eating lunch mid-winter with Grasshopper when the snow began, soft and dreamy but so dangerous for cyclists on road bikes. The wind was also strong that day, blowing the flakes sideways. It looked like a fairyland, but like all fairy tales had its dangers. But today, while wind is predicted, it is not predicted to be a strong wind. And it is way too warm for snow.
As seems usual, there is one rider unready to leave the parking lot when the ride starts. As captain, I hang back until he is ready. Despite his dropping his chain on the first climb, it is not too long before we catch the others. I am hoping that some people will ride slowly as I have not been riding much lately. For awhile I was ill and then for awhile just tired. Indeed, I thought I might have caught COVID, but both rapid and lab testing were negative. But people are not riding slowly and I go with the flow hoping I will be able to maintain throughout the ride.
I love the first of a ride, before the pace groups begin to form, when the brightness of the different jerseys stretch before me snaking down the road. One can hear the chatter and laughter as riders catch up and share what is new in their lives. But this never lasts long, and by the time we catch the riders some are ahead. We do catch up in time to stop one group which veers off course heading the traditional direction. Well, we really don't catch them, but we don't follow them and turn and they notice. It does not take them long to rejoin the group. I am thankful for this. I am not in any shape to be trying to ride people down for wrong turns.
The first store stop is the traditional one at Huck's in Austin. Despite the fact we don't stop there often, they never seem surprised to see us. We still are close enough together that everyone is at the store at the same time. Those that arrived earlier than the rest, however, depart first. I tease them about being in a hurry to go eat junk food at the festival. As we pass through Austin I note that the festival they usually hold on the same day, the Fireman's Festival if I remember correctly, does not appear to be a go. Pandemic or a change of dates? I don't and probably won't know.
I am riding primarily with Dee and Tony at this point in the ride. They tell me that they always pick out something to look for on century rides. They then guess how many they will find. Whoever comes closest is the winner and the other person treats them to a snack following the ride. Today's watch is for basketball goals. They tease each other about counting incorrectly if it means they will lose in the way that close friends tease each other with no malice. I enjoy hearing their banter and it helps miles pass. They make me think of how many nice and interesting people I have met through riding a bicycle.
At one point, on 700, what seems like a million jeeps pass us. I grin to myself at the irony of this for 700 has become busier than the state road would have been. We assume they are heading for the festival which normally has a car show, but they turn on a side row that has a sign reading D.A.R.E. I later google DARE, but only see where it was a failed drug program of some type. We never see the jeeps again. There is a car show, but they are not part of it. My curiosity is doomed to remain unassuaged.
I am surprised at how few farmers we see out harvesting on such a fine day. A few trucks and harvesting machines pass, but very few. Some of the fields have been harvested, but many have not. I also am surprised at the lack of pumpkin fields. Normally, year after year, I pass fields where pumpkins lie rotting. It always aroused my curiosity as to whether it was due to labor woes or there just were too many pumpkins. I always chuckle at the freshly harvested soybean fields. They remind me of a man's stubble when he goes a day or two without shaving. I notice that where there is green grass, the green is not quite so green as it seemed to be a week or so ago. The tree leaves are beginning to brown at the edges and those trees that shed early are scattering their leaves along the roads we travel.
Prior to arriving at the festival, we go through the covered bridge, stopping to take photos. I think how thankful I am that the bridge was restored and that thus far nobody has had an urge to destroy it as has happened to other bridges. I don't think I will ever understand the need to destroy things that are beautiful or historical. And this bridge is both.
At the festival, everyone is still there. Larry is kind enough to have brought his drone and is taking lots of footage that I know he will coalesce into some wonderful video. Some have eaten. Some are waiting in line. John Fong and Fritz tell me they are averaging over 19 mph when I ask. Being at the back, I don't know who else, if anyone, is riding with them at that pace. While I would rather have the barbecue, the long line deters me and, as usual, I get the tenderloin. As always, it is overcooked and enough to serve 2 people. Normally I throw half of it away, but not today. This is a mistake and I will fill overfull and sluggish all day long from my gluttony. I take the time to tease Steve Rice about whether he is going to ride again in the barrel train as he and other riders did in the past. Oh, how we laughed that day. This year nobody leads the way, but the barrels are filled with smiling children, and that is satisfying to see. There truly is nothing like the smiling eyes of a happy child.
As with the first store stop, people leave in groups determined by arrival time and how long they had to wait in line to get something to eat. It is when I leave with the last group that I (and others) notice that we will battle a head wind on the way back. This explains our above normal average getting there. One would think after all these years that my average would have given me a hint that there was a tail wind on the way out, but it did not. Tami and Jon W. join our group for the ride home, or part of it. I giggle to myself when Tami complains she is slow on hills because she is a strong rider. Dee and Tony talk about how she just finished a very successful half-ironman and I don't doubt it. I ask Tami if the ratio of men to women at triathlons has ever become equal. Just like this ride, with only four women, it has not, or so she says.
At the third store stop, the lead group is long gone when I arrive. It is starting to feel hot, and I am glad to arrive as my water bottles are empty, not normal for me. But then I remember that I didn't drink at the lunch stop as I normally do so it makes sense. Everyone heads out but Jon Wineland who is eating a sandwich. He tells me to go on and seems to mean it, so knowing this and how strong he is, I do. I worry when it takes him awhile to catch back up, but he does catch up.
Eventually I will drop back to hang with a rider that is struggling with the wind and another who is coming back from an injury. Frankly, I am glad for the slower pace. It gives me time to relish and savor this beautiful fall day, for I know what is following closely on fall's footsteps. And everyone finishes. Mark R. was worried about cramping, but I don't find him stranded along the road tied in knots. What a treat it is to see him riding a century again. Nobody even seemed in any danger of not finishing, and that is good. I think about Medora for a bit and wonder who, if anyone, will lead it when I no longer ride centuries. I hope it is not for many years, but I am aging. I hope that someone carries on the tradition adding their own flavor to the journey.
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